by Unknown
“What?” The albino asked with a suspicious frown.
A smile bloomed on her face as Minerva simply turned, and started walking toward the lounge. Amell looked at Ecu with an expression of wonder.
“Puppy love,” Ecu stated flatly.
Minerva made her way through the flow of fellow marines, scarcely receiving a sideways glance as she went. Most were too absorbed in their own conversations, or tasks at hand to take much notice of yet another new person.
One thing that differed from their recruit barracks was that this one was equipped with an off-duty lounge. It was pretty decently lain out, with a couple of arcade game consoles, a pool table, and a sitting area that partially encircled a big flat screen TV.
The well-worn sofas were occupied, and people were beginning to gather around, interested in the GNN newscast being beamed in from Earth. Images of blasted cities, and advancing Storian armies flashed, followed by intricate diagrams of naval ship positions in space around the seven moons of Denmoore, known widely as the Straits---due to the difficulties in traversing them with all of the gravitational fluctuations involved.
She cared about none of that, though, not at the moment. Minerva had zeroed in on one particular individual, who happened to be sitting with his back to the door. He was talking to someone next to him, laughing quietly so as not to disturb those listening to the news report.
She came up from behind, and leaned in low over the back of the couch, near his cheek, “Didja miss me?”
He turned in surprise, at first not recognizing her, but realization dawned, and a smile lit his face.
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“Holy…” he cut himself off from cursing, leaping to his feet, and bounding over the couch. He grabbed her by the arms.
“Look at you!” He exclaimed. “All decked out in your armor, and a corporal at that!”
Mark’s grip on her eased, becoming more intimate. He leaned in slightly, near enough for her to smell the mint from his toothpaste on his breath. It was obvious what he wanted to do, but he was holding back. Minerva felt a sudden, cold stab of self-doubt. Maybe she wasn’t as pretty as before. Maybe he was having second thoughts about starting a relationship.
“Is it okay?” He asked.
She blinked, “Is what okay?”
“Can I kiss you?”
That questioned warmed her heart. He did like her! To top it off, he was asking for permission to move forward. How sweet was that?
Minerva smiled, and placed her hand around his neck, pulling him in. The kiss was soft, so soft. Cheers and whoops went up around them.
“Hey, shut up!” Someone shouted. “Shut the hell up! The President is going to make an announcement!”
Grudgingly, Minerva ended the kiss, and allowed her attention to follow everyone else’s to the TV. She managed to get a good, meaningful look into Mark’s eyes beforehand, though. Those green eyes that had haunted her in a wonderful way for nine, long weeks. They held her for a moment longer.
At seven sharp, the broadcast was interrupted by an image of the White House seal, then
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breaking away to a press-filled conference room, and the camera giving a wide-shot of the empty podium with a pair of Secret Service agents flanking it.
A smartly dressed woman came from the side, and stood facing the press. The drone of voices lowered, and cameras began flashing. A door opened, and another agent stepped through, making a brief scan of the room. He was apparently satisfied with what he saw, and made a hand gesture back from the way he had come.
President Petra Reyes appeared, and the aide near the podium spoke into the microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand for the President of United Earth.”
She stepped up to the podium, her demeanor serious, and cleared her throat. She carried no notes, as was her custom. Every one of her speeches since taking office had been delivered from the heart, speaking her mind at the moment. It was an attribute that had earned her immeasurable respect from all of the global districts.
“I will not be taking any questions tonight,” Reyes stated, “as my purpose at this time is to inform our citizens, and allies what is taking place, and what will follow as a result. More information will be provided by my press secretary afterward.”
She gripped the sides of the podium, and took a breath, “My fellow citizens of Earth, and our allies of Attaya, I stand before you now to announce that the global congress has authorized me to declare a state of war between ourselves, and the Storian Empire.”
The press on TV murmured excitedly, and the camera flashes intensified. The moment was surreal.
“If you have been following events unfold over recent months,” Reyes continued, “then you are aware that Emperor Grozet has been attempting to expand his influence across his star system. He first invaded his own industrial colony, Pala, when they
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attempted to become independent. The aggression did not stop there. Shortly after, he positioned his space navy around the Attayan territory of Denmoore. Despite repeated demands to stand down, and numerous economic sanctions followed by his removal from the United Nations, Grozet chose to initiate an unprovoked attack on Denmoore. This attack included the use of banned nuclear weapons.
“The Republic of Attaya moved immediately to a war footing, and dispatched its space naval forces to the Denmoore Straits. Storian battle groups, in the past day, have begun massing along the galactic frontier. We have reason to believe that they intend to direct further hostile action against Earth. I now therefor order our military forces to a full state of war readiness. All industrial applications will convert to war production, and martial law is now in effect. We will not tolerate such acts of unprovoked, and unwarranted aggression. That is all I have at this time. I will keep the union informed. Thank you.”
The President then hurried from the room, her security in tow, leaving the press to scramble from their chairs, many already on their cell phones.
The lounge was cast in complete silence.
The marines were hushed by the shattering reality that all of the rumors, and all of their own false bravado, was being cast into the light. It was no longer a matter of ‘distant tensions’ being the topic of the day. Things were escalating. War had been declared, and they were going to soon be heading off to fight. And possibly die.
Some looked toward their buddies for reassurance, others avoided meeting anyone’s gaze altogether. A few went to the Anderson phones mounted on the wall to try to call home, both locally and to Earth, despite hearing that the transmission relays had been shut down. The kids felt compelled to at least try to reach out to their loved ones.
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Mark put an arm around Minerva’s waist, and gently tugged. She went with him down a back hallway, and up a flight of stairs until they reached a door marked roof. He pushed on the panic bar, and the door swung open, admitting them to the rooftop, and the humid early evening. They stepped toward the southern edge, and stood there arm-in-arm, gazing out over the coastline. Dixon was much nearer to the beach, and the blue line of the ocean was visible, a sweeping blue gem bordered by white sand, and a glorious sky. Thunderheads hung perilously high, flattening into anvils overhead. Lightning stabbed at the horizon, too far away to hear the thunder.
The view was gorgeous, and sharing it with Mark only made it better. Minerva fairly glowed inside. His kiss still felt warm on her lips, the memory of it engraved into her brain. She leaned her head on his shoulder, smelling the scent from his soap, savoring the softness of his cotton t-shirt. Admiring the way it clung to the form of his chest.
“Corporal Amell said you’re the platoon sergeant, now,” She said dreamily. “Congrats on getting your promotion.”
He chuckled, “Thanks. Same to you. Coming straight out of basic with two stripes.”
A few moments more of quiet between them. He held her a little tighter.
“I really missed you,” he finally said.
Minerva pulled away far eno
ugh to be able to look at his face, “You know, we really hardly know each other.”
“Then let’s change that,” Mark told her. “I like you, Minerva. A lot.”
She smiled, hugging him, feeling his embrace through the armor she still wore, “I like you, too.”
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They watched the sun go down, and the lights begin to wink on along the coastline until the brighter ones of the base drowned them out. An hour passed, perhaps two. Minerva didn’t care. Being with Mark by no means cured the ache of missing her parents, but it did fill a hole of its own. Like the coming of war, falling for him had come so quickly.
She was no fool. Allowing feelings like that to sprout that rapidly were probably unwise, especially in light of current events.
Damn it. I’m only human, she thought.
And, for that moment, for that one evening of her life spent on a rooftop with the cutest guy she’d ever met---on an alien world, no less, it all just seemed to be alright.
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Eight
War
Star Harbor
November 2nd, Earth Standard Calendar
Space Navy Captain Robert Corbin sat alone at a small table near the window on the upper floor of the officer’s club. From his vantage point, he had an unmolested view of the military piers below. The docks were as full as he had ever seen them. The USS Goliath, a super-carrier, and flag ship for the 3rd Fleet, was moored alongside his own LHA, half a dozen destroyers and missile cruisers, and all of the accompanying tenders. This was only half of the Goliath Task Force. The other half was already patrolling the outer borders of the Sol system, policing the traffic lanes, and keeping a weary eye for Storian activity anywhere near the Ort Cloud. Finding any of Grozet’s ships out there would be the first indicators that an attack was imminent.
The piers were hives of activity with longshoremen hurried to complete the on-load of vast amounts of stores. Cranes heaved huge containers of munitions onto decks. Each vessel was being prepared for a protracted mobilization. What he watched evoked visions dark with dread.
Robert forced himself to look away, turning his attention to the mimosa he was drinking. Some might have chided him for having a taste for what the macho among his colleagues would consider a lady’s drink, but none dared say so to his face. He wouldn’t have cared anyway. The simple fact was, they tasted
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damned good, and had little chance of bringing regrets the day after.
He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt, and pulled out a creased photo of himself, and his two boys. It had been taken years ago, when they were but six, and his wife was still alive. They were standing together on the beach, waves foaming around their ankles. He remembered that day as if it were yesterday, feeling the sun on his face, and hearing the laughter of his kids. His smile waned, as memories of his wife’s cancer clouded over him. How she had suffered. Those last, long nights at her bedside, listening to her fighting for every rattling breath. Her passing had been a bittersweet blessing, in that her pain was over, as was his own.
With a sigh, he replaced the cherished photo to its rightful spot near his heart.
Robert happened to glance up, and spotted a familiar face. Standing in the doorway of the club, peering into the dimly lit interior, stood his friend and First Officer. Commander Ghent held the expression of a man who was thoroughly pissed off.
The captain rose an arm, catching his attention. He grinned at the older man’s approach. “Took you long enough. Did I interrupt a date, or you just couldn’t get off the john?”
Commander Ghent, who was ten years his senior, was clearly having none of Robert’s attempt at levity.
“Damn it, Robert! We’re teetering on the edge of sailing off for battle, and here you sit, having drinks!”
Robert suppressed a chuckle. When his friend got himself worked up, there was no easy way to bring him back down. It was, however, fun to poke at him a little bit.
“It’s a good drink. You want one?”
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Ghent pushed the glass aside with a scowl, and fixed the captain with a scathing glare, “Keep making jokes. Meanwhile, Grozet is sharpening his sword, and getting ready to run it right up our backsides.”
“Get a hold of yourself.”
The commander let out a breath, looking at his watch, “It’s almost time for the executive briefing.”
“I know. I’m the one who paged you, remember?”
Ghent shifted in seat, leaning forward slightly, “I don’t suppose you’d care to let me in on what’s going to be announced, would you?”
Robert sipped his drink, shrugging, “I honestly haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“Well, you can damn well bet your last dollar it’s about shipping orders,” the commander surmised, thumbing at the window. “I can guess that just by looking down there. It’s a damned wonder they aren’t leading animals two-by-two.”
“That is a lot of stores,” Robert admitted. “It was the other thing I noticed that bothered me more.”
Ghent waited through an interminable silence while his friend just sipped his drink.
“Well, what, dammit! Are you just going to watch me sit here, and grow older?”
A small laugh escaped, making Robert turn red trying not to choke. Ghent endured it, staring daggers.
“Seriously.” The captain told him once he’d gotten control of himself. “The ordinance crews were loading nukes a little while ago. Onto all of the ships, not just the cruisers.”
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Ghent’s eyes bulged, “Sweet Savior in Heaven. Is it really coming to that?”
Robert checked his watch, and threw back the last of drink, “Let’s head over early, and get good seats for the briefing.”
As it turned out, the conference room was already filling with the senior officers of the Goliath battle group. Chairs had been set up in a half-circle, facing the podium in front. Of course, there weren’t enough for everyone. Robert and Ghent opted to remain standing near one wall, trying not get jostled too much by the crowd.
Tension in the room was high, as was the volume of chatter. There was some discontent among some of the younger officers that commanded the tenders and support frigates, which were historically high-value targets with fewer defenses. They were not very enthused with the idea of steaming into an action zone having what amounted to a big red X painted on their backsides. The popular complaint was that their vessels had so few weapons systems compared to the larger combatants.
The older captains present, for the most part, remained stoic while listening to the griping in silence. Robert passed a meaningful look with his friend, and allowed himself to wonder how things were going with his youngest boy. Unofficial com traffic with Attaya had been suspended, with all other forms encoded, or not sent at all. Even snail mail and Anderson internet was chopped. Lord only knew what the Marines were planning to do. Last he’d heard from Mark, there was something about a girl that he was crazy about, but no real details had been given.
“Atten-hut!” Someone announced sharply over the din in the room. Instant quiet fell as the officers snapped to.
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Two of the highest-ranking line officers in the field entered, one Rear Admiral McKee, the other Marine General Towers. They were directly under the President’s chief advisors, Command Admiral Green, and Major General Parks.
The pair carried briefcases that had been handcuffed to them. An aide produced a set of keys, and undid them.
Admiral McKee stepped up to the microphone first, and made a downward motion, “At ease. Please, be seated.”
The admiral popped the case open, and thumbed through a sheaf of files, selecting one in particular. He closed the briefcase lid, and scanned the contents of the folder he had taken. When he looked up, his face was grim.
“As you are all well aware, things have turned to shit this past month.”
The statement had been delivered dry, perhaps intended to carry a hint of
humor, but if that was the case, failed. No one laughed.
“Pala and Denmoore now stand firmly occupied by the Storians, and the civilian death toll of their ethnic cleansing endeavors numbers literally in the millions. The Trade Alliance, the U.N., and the GCA have failed miserably in their piss-poor efforts to stop it with sanctions, and half-hearted threats. Grozet fairly laughed in our faces when he opted to utilize nukes.”
McKee took a moment to look down at his report before continuing.
“It’s now coming to our own backyard, ladies and gentlemen,” he said gravely. “The Storian main fleet, a consist of three full battle groups, is massing along our frontier in what we anticipate to be an all-out naval offensive against Earth. Their probes have already been spotted dropping out of Anderson drive in
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the Oort Cloud.”
The captain of the Goliath rose his hand, “Intel was so damned certain that they would be moving against Attaya first, with the Denmoore System being so near to that sector.”
McKee shook his head, “The Attayans have a better equipped navy than we do. Grozet made a wise tactical decision in attempting to avoid a direct engagement with them too early on. He wants real estate, to better establish forward operations bases. He takes Earth, it eliminates depending on supply lines that have to run all the way from his homeworld.”
Robert spoke up, “Sir, any latest on how the Attayans are doing in the Straits?”
“That carrier task force is still actively engaged. The Denmoore Straits may prove to be a folly, though. We feel those assets would be better utilized in the Sol Theater.”
The admiral nodded to the aide, who dimmed the lights down, and brought up a digital display on the stage screen.
“Our more immediate concerns lie here,” McKee used a laser pointer to highlight a particular set of colored dots on a star field that was cut with lines representing the different regions of claimed space among themselves, and the other two races.
“The trio of Storian carrier task forces. They are massed at points where the only conceivable arc within the range of their drive capacities would bring them directly to our inner space. Our traffic lanes have been effectively cut off from Attaya, and as stated earlier, advance probes have already been detected in the Ort Cloud along our outermost planets.”
